


Starry Night

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 04:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19221346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Crowley is sent to talk to a failing artist in France.





	Starry Night

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Vincent Van Gogh's suicide was a tragedy and not meant to be taken lightly. This piece is a work of fiction and not meant to be taken seriously/disrespect him.

In the course of his time serving the Devil, Crowley had met many illustrious people.  
Kings and Queens, adventurers, criminals. But more often, Crowley dealt with very normal, everyday kind of Humans.   
His temptations tended to be rather minuscule; he didn't _really_ like doing _evil_ stuff, just. . .minor inconveniences. It wasn't any fun when people went about doing really nasty things. . .Humans came up with most of that stuff on their own anyway. Why make people sin when he could sit back and watch as they did it themselves, then take credit for it later?   
  


_1890_

 

Aziraphale had been spending his time in London trying to open his bookshop, and Crowley had been. . .well, helping him open his bookshop.   
He knew he shouldn't, but there were plenty of brothels and poverty around the area he could take credit for in the mean time anyway.   
Then Hastur called for a little “meetup.”   
Crowley hated this, mostly because Hastur was a jackass who took everything way too seriously, but also because it meant he probably had to meet in some smelly alley or haunted graveyard or something. He was _not_ going to get his new silk shirt dirty anytime soon.   
He ended up convincing Hastur that they should meet at Regent's Park, which they did that night.   
As usually, the grimy wanker shot out of the ground like an overgrown weed.   
“Crowley,” Hastur hissed.   
“Hmm, yeah. So you've got something for me to do?”   
Hastur narrowed his eyes dramatically while Crowley waited impatiently for an answer.   
“Yesss,” Hastur said. “I have been ruining the life of a Dutch painter, his art is good, but doesn't sell. Now he has psychotic episodes, and is ill with sadness. I need you to finish securing his soul for our Master.”   
Crowley's eyebrows furrowed. Hastur had given someone depression? That seemed a bit extreme. Why not just give him eczema? Or a hang nail? That was pretty irritating.   
“Er, right, okay. I'm on it.”   
“Do not mess this up, Crowley,” Hastur said, and the ground swallowed him once more.   
  
“You're going to France, Crowley? But my shop is due to open Monday!”   
“I know, Angel, but Hastur's having me mess with some painter,” Crowley said apologetically. He was genuinely sad about disappointing Aziraphale. He didn't like to watch the Principality deflate in defeat.   
“Well, what is his name? Maybe I've heard of him,” Aziraphale said.  
“I don't think so. Hastur's really put a damper on his career. His name's Van Gogh.”   
Aziraphale's eyes instantly lit up with recognition.   
“Not Vincent!” he cried. “He has so much talent! Oh Crowley, you mustn't. You mustn't.” Aziraphale looked up at him with pleading eyes that made his heart absolutely melt. How was he to say no to this?   
“Ahh, fine. I'll. . .I'll make sure he doesn't. . .go to Hell, or whatever.”   
Aziraphale grinned from ear to ear.  
“Oh thank you, my dear. I'll push the opening of the shop back, so you can come.”   
Crowley murmured a “yeah, yeah” and went to deal with his new task.   
  
Finding Van Gogh was just a little demonic trick—Crowley wasn't about to bother looking for him. Instead, he just popped himself a few yards away, far enough that he couldn't see him, and made to go towards him.   
He was sitting in a field, in front of an easel, but had painted nothing. Instead, he was looking at the long, tall stalks of wheat with a somber look on his face. His tufts of red hair were striking against the colourless landscape.   
“You Vincent?” Crowley asked without hesitation. The man didn't even turn around.   
“I suppose you're here to get me,” Van Gogh said stiffly. Crowley froze, confused. Then Van Gogh lifted the gun in his lap to show him.   
“Oh,” Crowley said. “Erm, in a way, yes, but if you could maybe put that down—“   
“Are you an angel?”   
Crowley's throat suddenly felt tight. He swallowed.   
“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I am. I've come to tell you, your art, it's going to be famous. You're going to have a museum, just for your art, and your paintings will sell for millions—“   
“That's a nice sentiment,” Van Gogh said simply. He still hadn't looked at Crowley.  
“What're you looking at?” Crowley asked.   
“The sky,” the artist replied. “The stars were always my favorite thing to look at, they never change. Can I look at the stars? In Heaven, I mean.”   
“Of course,” Crowley said quietly. “Whenever you'd like.”   
He knew that what was going to happen was inevitable. Ineffable, Aziraphale would say. That's what it was. Ineffable. There was simply nothing he could do.   
“It's been very pleasant talking to you, Mr Angel,” Van Gogh said. “I hope I will see you again. I must be going now. This world is far too painful for me to remain.”   
Crowley swallowed.  
“I'm sorry about that. I'll. . .I'll leave you in privacy.”  
“Actually, would you mind staying? Just until I make my. . .ascent.”   
“Sure,” Crowley said.   
He felt strangely small.   
  
  
Vincent Van Gogh did not arrive in Hell, to Hastur's dismay. Crowley couldn't exactly send him directly to Heaven, but he could put a. . .blocker, of sorts, so that he didn't go to Hell.   
He didn't tell anyone about his final moments with the artist, giving him comfort. He didn't tell anyone he blocked his path to Hell. He didn't tell anyone that he squeezed the man's hand and wished him well in the afterlife.   
Instead, he told everyone Down Below that it was just a simple failed mission, oh well, catch em next time; and Aziraphale, he told him that he'd made sure that Van Gogh's art would be a success, and that his life would not go unnoticed.  
“Oh Crowley, thank you. You truly do have good—“  
“Oh, shut up, Angel.”   
Aziraphale smiled faintly. He caught Crowley's pained look, and he reached the demon's hand, squeezing it tightly.   
“I know what you did,” he said softly. “He arrived, yesterday morning. Demon or not—“   
“Don't go saying it out loud,” Crowley hissed with false annoyance. “They'll hear you.”   
“Well, you know.”   
“Yes yes, just don't go telling anybody.”   
  
_“Starry Night”_ became Crowley's favorite painting shortly thereafter. He hung it in his flat, and every once in a while, would look up at the painting and remind himself that he wasn't really all that bad.   


 


End file.
